The Book of Fate

91

Wes, get the hell out of here! Now!” Boyle hisses, his gun pointed at O’Shea. A wisp of smoke twirls from the barrel.

Sliding to the ground with his back against the lamppost, O’Shea crumples to his knees. Fighting to stand up, he doesn’t get anywhere. He’s already in shock. Taking no chances, Boyle rushes in and jams the barrel of his gun against O’Shea’s head. “Where’s Micah?” he demands.

Down on his knees, O’Shea grits his teeth in obvious pain. “You finally found his name, huh? I told him this wou—”

“I’m asking you one more time,” Boyle threatens. Moving the gun from O’Shea’s head, he jabs the barrel into the wound in O’Shea’s shoulder. O’Shea tries to scream, but Boyle puts his hand over O’Shea’s mouth. “Last time, O’Shea! Where’s he hiding?” Pulling back the hammer, he digs his gun into O’Shea’s wound.

O’Shea’s body shakes as he tries to speak. Boyle lets go of his mouth. “H-He’s dead,” O’Shea growls, more pissed than ever.

“Who did it? You or The Roman?”

When O’Shea hesitates, Boyle twists the gun even deeper. “M-M-Me…” O’Shea grunts, his eyes wild like an animal’s. “Just like I’ll do with y—”

Boyle doesn’t give him the chance, pulling the trigger and shooting him through the same wound. There’s a muffled pop and a splat as a hunk of flesh explodes out the back of his shoulder. The pain’s so intense, O’Shea doesn’t even have time to scream. His eyes roll back. His arms go slack.

Crumpling like a sack of pennies, O’Shea rag-dolls forward. The instant he hits the dirt, Boyle’s all over him, pulling O’Shea’s hands behind his back and snapping his wrists into plastic flex cuffs that Boyle’s pulled from his pocket.

“Wh-What’re you doing here?” I ask, barely catching my breath.

With a loud zzzip, the cuffs clench, locking O’Shea’s wrists behind his back. If Boyle wanted him dead, he’d fire another shot. But the way he’s wrapping him up, he clearly wants something else. What’s more amazing is the way Boyle moves — patting down O’Shea’s body, working so fast… the way his triceps tense underneath his windbreaker… he’s been training for this.

“Wes, I told you to leave!” Boyle shouts, finally turning my way.

It’s the first time I get a good look at his eyes. Even in the dim light, they glow like a cat’s. Brown with a splash of blue.

In the distance, a car door slams with a metal chunk. Boyle jerks to the left, following the sound. The tall shrubs block his view, but the way he freezes, leaning in to listen… like he knows someone’s coming.

“We gotta go!” he insists, suddenly frantic as he pulls O’Shea’s gun from the mud and pockets it.

“How’d you know I’d be here?”

Refusing to answer, he furiously rolls the unconscious O’Shea like a log, flipping him on his back. “Help me get him up!” Boyle demands.

Without even thinking, I move in, grabbing O’Shea under his left armpit. Boyle grabs the right.

“Were you following me?” I add as we lug O’Shea to his feet.

Boyle ignores the question, cutting in front of O’Shea and dropping to one knee. As O’Shea topples forward, Boyle hoists his shoulder under O’Shea’s midsection, boosting him up like he’s lugging an old rolled-up carpet.

“I asked you a—”

“I heard you, Wes. Get out of my way.” He tries to step around me. I sidestep, staying in front of him.

“You were following me? Is that to track them down or—?”

“Are you paying attention, Wes? Nico can be here any minute!”

I stumble at the words. My mouth goes dry, and I swear, every sweat gland in my body opens.

“Now get the hell out of here before you get both of us killed!” Shaking his head, Boyle rushes around me with O’Shea on his shoulder. I spin back and watch as he plows down to the end of the dog run.

“Where’re you taking him?”

“Don’t be stupid!” he calls out, shooting me one last look and making sure I get the point. “There’ll be time for chatting later.”

In the distance, as he turns away from me, Boyle’s black windbreaker camouflages everything but his bald head. Draped over his shoulder, it’s the same for O’Shea, whose pale neck shines as his head dangles toward the ground. Boyle yells something else, but I can’t hear it. At the clip they’re going down the tree-lined path, they quickly fade in the darkness. The sun’s already set. And I’m once again standing in silence. In shock. All alone.

Behind me, a car door slams in the parking lot. On my left, a cricket’s chirp scratches the night air. The drizzle continues and another twig cracks. Then another. It’s more than enough.

Spinning back toward the parking lot, I run as fast as I can. Another car door slams. This one’s quiet — like it’s on the very far end of the lot. No time to take chances. Scooping up my wallet, house keys, and the photo, I dart between the lampposts, back to the parking lot. As I cut between two cars, no one’s there.

After stuffing my wallet back into my pocket — and the photo back inside the ankle of my sock — I run through the lot, searching row by row and scanning the hood of each car. Along every metal roof, the overhead lamps cast a circular reflection that ripples with each raindrop. Still no one in sight. It doesn’t make me feel any safer. If Boyle’s been following me the whole time, then anyone cou— No, don’t even think about it.

Shifting into a full sprint, I plow toward Lisbeth’s car, rip open the door, and practically dive into the driver’s seat. The car’s still running. My phone’s still sitting on the armrest.

Flipping open my cell, I frantically punch in Rogo’s number and throw the car in reverse. But as I listen to it ring, all I can think about is who Rogo’s traveling with… and how many questions Dreidel was asking… and how — somehow — O’Shea knew I was talking to Lisbeth. Rogo and I were convinced that Dreidel couldn’t hear anything from our last conversation, but if we were wrong…

Jamming my thumb against the End button, I hang up, replaying Boyle’s words in my head. There’ll be time for chatting later. I look down at the digital clock on the dash. An hour and forty-five minutes, to be precise.

As my thumb pounds out a brand-new number and my foot pounds the gas, I tell myself it’s the only way. And it is. However Boyle pulled it off, even if he was using me as bait for The Three, by nabbing O’Shea and finding out Micah’s dead, he finally gave us a chance. So instead of just showing up at seven tonight — instead of just rushing in blind — I need to make the most of it. Even if it means taking some risks.

As I finish dialing the last digit, all I have to do is hit Send. Still, I stop myself. Not because I don’t trust her. But because I do. Rogo would tell me I shouldn’t. But he didn’t hear her apology. He didn’t hear the pain in her voice. She knew she’d hurt me. And that hurt her.

I hit Send, praying I won’t regret it. I listen as the phone rings. And rings again. She’s got caller ID. She knows who it is.

The phone rings for a third time as I zip through the parking lot toward the front of the building. I don’t blame her for not picking up. If I’m calling, it only means trou—

“Wes?” Lisbeth finally answers, her voice softer than I expected. “That you?”

“Yeah.”

It’s not tough to read my tone. “Everything okay?” she asks.

“I–I don’t think so,” I say, gripping the steering wheel.

She doesn’t even hesitate.

“How can I help?” she asks.